


Brain Fluid

by orphan_account



Category: Nirvana (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 19:23:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16290299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Something is wrong with Kurt. There is speculation as to its cause, but no one really knows why. Does Kurt know, but is choosing not to tell anyone, or is it something more serious?





	Brain Fluid

It was a familiar feeling and one that Kurt had tried to grow accustomed to. Sometimes, however, trying to get used to a feeling, isn’t enough to dispel it completely. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it was frightening, drastic and emotional.

He felt it happening as they were sitting there. The interview had so far been a success. Kurt had actually felt like talking this time and had engaged the questions and provided substantial answers.

But then his stomach had felt cramped, his chest had tightened and he had done his best to ignore it. It was like he had constant butterflies in his stomach to the point it made him feel sick and uncomfortable. His chest felt like someone was clamping it with iron and his head began to feel light and dizzy.

He did his best to control it, he had managed to control it before, managed to deal with it and fight it off, and he fought hard to do the same again. At first, no one noticed, he had it covered, controlled, contained. But then he noticed the interviewer looking at him strangely, watching him – studying him, almost. This only made things worse. Anxiety seared up from his stomach, racing through his temples and throbbing in his head. His speech was quickening, and he took short, sharp breaths between each sentence.

His eyes darted around the room, he was unable to keep focus, the words people were saying - the lights and the surroundings all swirled together, illegible, intangible, and unreadable.

“Kurt?” Krist’s voice seemed far off and distant. “Kurt, are you okay?” The voice sounded surreal and distorted.

Dave spoke, too. Something about the cameras running. Something else – Kurt couldn’t understand or piece what was being said together. His heart rate increased, his breathing was fast, shallow, pitched and sharp.

“Kurt? Kurt, calm down!”

Krist was in front of him now, Kurt could make out the outline of his friend’s face, but his own vision was blurry – like a TV snowstorm of white and black, frenzied and frantic, obscuring his vision.

He closed his eyes, his chest was hurting so much and his heart was beating so quickly, he could swear he could hear it thundering against his ribcage.

He couldn’t settle, he couldn’t calm himself or do anything – he was shaking now, uncontrollable, unsteady, his breathing was so fast that the room was spinning and his eyes had even started flickering – the whites of his eyes flashed with blue as they began to roll back.

“Kurt! Fucking hell! Kurt!”

The voices were far away, distant, dreamlike, hazed and strange. He couldn’t recall very much at all before everything surrounded him in a black-red mist and he quickly fell into unconsciousness.

***

 

The news channels had already shown footage of Kurt Cobain ‘collapsing’ during the interview. Tabloids reported him falling into ‘an unconscious state, most likely caused by drug use’ and the radio had reported it frequently throughout the day.

Angry at the accusations of this, Krist had called the papers that had reported it and asked them to retract their statements. Yes, Kurt had issues with drugs and on occasion had slipped into a sleep-like state due to his heroin use, during one or two interviews, but this was not the case and Krist knew that for certain.

At his side, Dave had not left the hospital bed for all the time that Kurt had been there. Krist had assured him that he would take care of things, sort out the statements, talk to the press, contact their record label, everything. All Dave had to do was be there when Kurt woke up.

The monitor constantly beeped and Dave watched the screen, following the lines of Kurt’s heart-rate and rhythm as it danced in sharp, green waves on the screen. It almost looked like an old Atari game, some sort of 2D level, where you had to get over mountains in a certain amount of time.

Dave smiled softly at the thought of himself and Kurt playing their computer games. It was one of the things they did most often, aside from playing music and watching TV.

Kurt’s eyelids began to flicker – his eyes moving franticly behind his lids and Dave’s smile faded. Kurt looked pale and gaunt, his lips cracked and dry.

Dave watched as Kurt’s lips began to move a little, pouting outwards and pursing together, as if he was about to speak.

“Kurt?” He leaned over slightly, lowering his voice. “Kurt, can you hear me?”

There was a pause, Kurt stilled, almost like he was listening, before he opened his mouth very slightly and muttered something.

Dave could figure what Kurt said, it was dry, mumbled and nonsensical. Dave didn’t try to decipher it. He waited a few more moments and Kurt very slowly opened his eyes.

Kurt laid there, looking right up to the ceiling, trying to focus, trying to work out where he was and what had happened.

Eventually, he swallowed, feeling the dry course texture of his throat, realising he was in need of something to drink, and he turned to see Dave sitting by his bedside.

“Hey,” Dave said, softly, smiling gently and leaning forwards a little. Kurt didn’t respond with anything verbal or even a smile.

He looked away and sighed a little. After a few more moments, he finally whispered: “Water,” and Dave immediately poured him some, carefully handing it to him, as Kurt slowly sat up. “Thank you,” Kurt said, his voice horse and almost inaudible.

Dave sat back down, but turned slightly as the door opened and Krist came in. Kurt glanced at him and Krist smiled, sitting down beside Dave at his bedside.

“It’s good to see you awake, Kurt. You gave us quite a scare.” He said, softly.

Kurt didn’t say anything and placed his water on the side. He slid back down and rested his head against the pillows.

“We need you to be honest with us Kurt – either way, we’ll find out. I just want to hear it from you.” Krist was direct, getting straight to the point, regardless of Kurt only being awake for a matter of minutes.

“Was it drugs?” He asked, assertively.

Kurt looked to him for what seemed to be an age, his eyes burned into Krist’s but he never replied. He simply averted his gaze and then turned over, his back facing them, the blankets nestled around his tiny frame, and all they could do was watch the rise and fall of his side as he breathed lightly and went back to sleep.

 

Two days after the incident, Kurt was released from hospital, but was required to go back for testing. The ‘fit’ as they had called it, was not induced by any kind of drug or substance. With the tests so far, they had found nothing – there was no explanation for what had happened.

Kurt had promised Krist and Dave faithfully that he would continue to seek medical attention and advice and they were relieved, pleased, satisfied that he was going to get some answers. In his mind, however, things were different and really, he had no intention in doing so at all. Probing, testing, pushing him – it wasn’t something he wanted happening to him. He could cope.

That had been the first ‘fit’ or attack that he had experienced in a long time. It would pass. It was probably stress-related, or something to do with his ongoing depression. He didn’t need advice or tests. He was fine.

After two weeks, Kurt announced that he had the all-clear from the doctors. Krist and Dave believed him, but Kurt was a good liar and could make even the most simple thing sound convincing. They didn’t question him or what he said and they seemed happy about their friends’ clean bill of health. Nothing more was said about it, after that. They didn’t feel the need to.

 

***

 

The screams were so immense and the room was hot and crowded. The walls were pulsating with the volume of the amplifiers, the lights were low and orange and red colours lit the stage.

The black sea of people moved in time to the drum beat, jumping, bopping, moshing and crowding together, hands in the air, feet stamping on the ground and their own steady stream of lyrics could be heard very slightly as Kurt started finishing their fourth song of the evening.

The air in the room was dry and musty and smelled of sweat. The song finished and people screamed and cheered and clapped. Kurt turned slightly to Krist, he began the bass line, Dave came in seconds later with the drums and Kurt began to play.

The crowd were ready for the next song, jumping around with excitement, anticipation and a want to hear the next set.

The intro only caused them to scream louder, jump around more and make more noise but then, Kurt’s riff stopped, the amp let out a shrill whine and he crumpled to the floor, his guitar sprawled half over his chest and shoulder, the rest of it on his face and slightly on the stage.

The crowd screamed, cheered, clapped – they thought it was all part of the show. Kurt was well known for doing stupid shit on stage, no one ever really took things too seriously, aside from a few conformist types who thought what he did was ‘too outrageous to be considered acceptable’.

Even Dave and Krist thought he was just having another one of his ‘moments’. Dave stood up and looked over his drums, seeing Kurt lying on the floor.

He glanced at Krist and Krist had already taken off his guitar and walked over to Kurt. The crowd were anxious now, concerned and worried. It didn’t look like part of an act anymore.

“Fuck, Dave! His eyes! They’re rolling into the back of his head!” Krist screamed and Dave bolted, standing with Krist in shock. Kurt was jolting, shuddering, his breathing was laboured and high, and almost like someone suffering a fit of epilepsy – but it couldn’t be.

They would have said so at the hospital, months before. They had tested for that before Kurt had been released, surely. And Kurt had said the tests afterwards had all been good, he was fine and he was –

Krist suddenly looked to Dave. “He lied to us! The fucking bastard lied!” He realised, finding himself panicking now, as the medical team approached from the wings of the stage.

Despondent to the raised cries of the crowds, Dave followed the medical team off, as they removed Kurt on a stretcher. Krist turned to them, leaning forwards into Kurt’s mic.

“I’m… so very, very sorry. I, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what happened. All, all your money will be reimbursed. You’ll get it all back. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, please, just – just go. I’m sorry.”

***

 

Kurt had not been rendered unconscious like before, but he was required to go to hospital and get checked over. He was sitting in one of the bays, in bed, waiting to be seen by a doctor. He felt so tired and weak.

Everyone was so friendly and nice and he hated the whole fabrication of it. No one was that nice. No one was so friendly that they had a constant smile plastered on their face to the point they looked like fucking clowns.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to focus on his own thoughts – anything to take his mind away from the clinical wash of the hospital and the clowns that ran it.

“Why did you lie?”

Kurt opened his eyes slowly, looking to Krist, locking his gaze and Kurt suddenly felt very guilty. Krist stood, his arms folded, his face almost emotionless.

“Where’s Dave?” Kurt asked softly, looking away, now, avoiding Krist’s stare.

“Why did you lie, Kurt?” Krist repeated, not moving, not averting his eyes – he was adamant.

“I didn’t lie… I just… I didn’t -”

“Tell the goddamn truth.” Krist finished.

Kurt looked at the blanket covering him. The soft wool was a coarse green colour – only the kind you would find in a hospital. Kurt couldn’t think of anyone who would actually choose a pea-green coloured blanket, which looked like it had been sicked back up.

His little plastic nametag was white and looked too big for his wrist, even though it was on its tightest setting. He swallowed a little, trying to clear his throat and moisten the dryness but he jumped slightly when Krist stepped over.

“Kurt!” He said, his voice suddenly becoming very loud. “Why did you lie?”

Kurt looked at him now, worried, ashamed, and guilty. “Because I didn’t… I didn’t want to know.” He said, very softly. He glanced to the old faded curtain behind Krist and sighed. “I didn’t want to know what was wrong with me. I had this before. I mean, a long time ago, I had something similar and the one a few months back… it was the first one in a long time, so I thought it wouldn’t matter. But I didn’t go because I didn’t want to know, I didn’t want to find out because - ”

Krist sat down on the plastic chair, moving closer to the bed. He seemed calm now, compassionate – more like the Krist that Kurt was so used to. He stopped Kurt.

“Everyone gets scared, Kurt. I was fucking scared when I found that lump on my head, but for fucksake, it was just a fucking wart.”

Kurt smiled a little at his recollection. Krist had been so worried it was something serious. He had gone to the doctors as soon as he had found it after asking almost fifty people what they thought it was. The doctor had told him it was a wart and given him some ointment to get rid of it.

“How do you even get a wart on your head?” Kurt grinned, looking at Krist, who had flushed a slight red. He hated being known for The Man With The Wart On His Head.

“I don’t know, but Kurt – it scared me and I didn’t want to go because I didn’t want to know what it was. I didn’t want to find out. I didn’t want to hear the truth about it, but Kurt… that little wart never resulted in me fitting on stage, or collapsing in interviews.”

Kurt looked away again and nodded very slightly. “I know the first time it happened, I was twenty I think. And I knew I was stressed. I thought it was because of stress.” He said, softly. “It’s not like… a fit. It’s more like… a panic attack. It feels like a panic attack.” He resounded.

Krist nodded, and they both looked up as the curtain was drawn back. Dave looked tired and pale. “They want to take him now, we need to go back to the waiting room,” he said, looking at Kurt.

Kurt couldn’t judge Dave’s expression. He seemed angry, annoyed, upset – a lot of things all at once. Maybe he was pissed off because Kurt had lied. Maybe he was angry because Kurt hadn’t told them anything. “Dave?” Kurt suddenly asked.

Dave looked at him; the glare was still cold and accusing. “It’s okay, Kurt. They just want to do some tests.” He said, almost dryly.

“Dave, I’m sorry.” Kurt said, as one of the nurses approached. “I’m sorry!” He said, his voice rising slightly.

Kurt was never sorry. Or if he was, he never stated it in a way that made him sound childlike and afraid. It was like he was being scolded for something – like a parent to a child and he felt the need to explain himself.

Dave didn’t allow him to and glanced quickly at the nurse who was waiting patiently, before walking to Kurt’s bedside. “Just… don’t lie to us again, Kurt. Don’t fucking lie again.” Dave said, before stepping back and allowing the nurses to wheel the bed away.

 

 

Dave closed his eyes and took another short breath. Kurt was having a fit – this time it wasn’t like the others he had experienced before. This time, it was a fit of rage. The room they had been practicing in was fast becoming a mess, as Kurt could be heard inside throwing things, kicking things, smashing things – wrecking the place.

Krist rested his back against the wall and looked to Dave. “This problem can be treated,” he said quietly, knowing what was causing Kurt’s outrage. “He can try a number of treatments.”

Dave nodded and lit up a cigarette and taking a drag before answering. “When did he find out?” he asked, softly.

“This morning,” Krist said. “He called me as soon as he found out.”

“And is it serious… like, epilepsy or something?” Dave asked, looking to Krist straight in the eyes.

Krist shook his head and smiled slightly, simply out of relief. “No, nothing like that,” he replied. “He’s got Panic Disorder.” Krist explained.

Dave looked to ground again, and exhaled the smoke. “How is that different from Generalized Anxiety or whatever?” He asked, his voice was low and almost shallow.

“The person doesn’t know when they’ll suffer another attack – the attacks are varied, recurring, but for no real reason.” Krist caught Dave’s stare and kept his eyes trained on the younger man’s face. “They’re unpredictable.”

Dave smiled slightly and nodded. “Like Kurt,” he said softly, his smile soon fading.

Krist returned the smile and nodded, he had thought similar things when he was talking to Kurt earlier. Dave sighed again and finished his cigarette before stubbing it out on the wall.

“And how is it treated?” He asked, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms, looking at Krist warily.

“There’s a lot of ways they can treat it – medications, creative visualization, talking therapies, self-help techniques… ” Krist’s voice trailed off. “Or self-medication with -” he paused and looked away. “With illegal substances.” He finished.

Dave’s face dropped and he looked at Krist for what felt like an age. “And you knew what he was planning on doing?” He asked, shocked – his voice suddenly very shrill. “And you let him?!” Dave began to grow angry.

Krist stepped forwards; his movements were twitchy, panicky. He put his arms out in front of him, holding his hands up, almost as though he was trying to guard himself.

“I didn’t know when!” He proclaimed, “He just mentioned it slightly, but he was saying a lot of things – he was rambling and he was mumbling and he…” Krist stopped; there was no excusing himself.

“Do you know what he took?” Dave asked, turning and placing his hand on the doorknob, readying himself to go back inside – to help his friend.

“No. He thought about pot… maybe doing some mushrooms… I don’t know… from his reaction now, I think it’s something stronger.”

Dave didn’t reply and slipped inside – the room had been completely trashed, but Kurt had finished his tirade. Smashed up instruments, strewn paper and cardboard, an amplifier was on it’s side, the speaker detached from the base unit. Even the water cooler had been pushed over and was dented, lying on the floor, surrounded by the water that had once been inside.

Kurt was sitting in the far corner, surrounded by the mess he had created. His knuckles were bleeding, which was the first thing Dave noticed as he went over to him. Seconds after, he saw a thin line of blood coming from Kurt’s nose and glanced back at Krist.

“You took cocaine?” He asked, kneeling down in front of him, it was obvious now, from his reactions, from his body language – from the way he had been acting all afternoon.

Dave had only ever experienced cocaine once, and it hadn’t been him taking it. He had only ever tried pot and acid, his intentions never went any further. A good friend had taken cocaine once, and Dave remembered the way his friend had acted. It was almost identical to the way Kurt had.

Kurt’s face was flushed; his eyes were bloodshot and watery. A small sweat beaded his forehead, and his body was shaking slightly.

“Sp, spe, speedball.” He muttered, his nose running and mixing with the blood.

“What’s that?” Dave asked, looking back to Krist, who was getting tissues and bottled water from his bag.

“A fucking stupid idea.” Krist said in annoyance. “It’s a cocktail – a mixture of heroin and cocaine. People can die from that, Kurt.” He said, sternly as he came over, kneeling down next to Dave.

“You really think this is going to help you? You honestly think this is what you need?” Carefully, Krist wiped Kurt’s nose, and handed him the bottle. “You need to drink this.” He continued. “Dehydration is the last thing you need right now.”

Dave sat back on his legs a little and watched Krist – it didn’t seem as though this was the first time he had tended to Kurt.

“Will he be okay? I mean… if it’s a lethal combination, shouldn’t we be getting him medical attention?” Dave asked, looking at Kurt’s face – he was pale but flushed and his pupils were dilated. He looked horrible.

“How much?” Krist asked, looking at Kurt. When Kurt didn’t respond, Krist took Kurt’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing Kurt to look at him. “How much, Kurt?” Krist’s voice was commanding now, direct, abrupt.

“Few grams…” Kurt slurred, closing his eyes and trying to pull away.

“Did you inject the stuff? Did you smoke it? What did you do, Kurt? How did you use it?”

Obviously, from the nosebleed, Kurt had snorted some of the cocaine, but from Krist’s knowledge, the cocaine and heroin was usually combined and then injected together. He needed to know what Kurt had done.

“In, in, inject and I, then I – just, then I…” Kurt was losing consciousness, and Dave felt a surge of panic as their friend suddenly became very unresponsive.

“Krist! Krist, what if he dies? Krist, you said people die from this shit, Krist, we need to get him help!” Krist nodded and ordered Dave to call for help.

As Dave left, Krist moved around, behind Kurt, holding him to his chest, supporting him – cradling him. He felt his own stomach cramp in panic and tried his best to keep calm.

***

 

“This medication may cause you to feel more panicky to begin with, but after a few weeks, the effects will lessen – once it gets into your system.”

Kurt looked at Krist with such annoyance, the drugstore assistant stopped what she was saying and almost didn’t continue. “It’ll help you, Kurt.” Krist said.

Krist smiled almost apologetically to her and she handed Kurt the medication as he confirmed his details. He hated the paper bags they used, with the stupid address label and the stupid green cross, depicted on the front. Kurt was in a hateful mood that morning.

It was the usual rainy morning they often had in Seattle, and Krist drove Kurt back to his apartment, where Dave had been cleaning up and trying to make the place less cluttered. Since Kurt’s drug usage, Krist and Dave had been watching him almost hourly.

Kurt had been very lucky to get away with it – with what he had taken and how dangerous it had been. Had the paramedics not arrived when they did, it was likely that Kurt would not have still alive.

“They want you to practice your creative visualization,” Krist mentioned, as he pulled up the drive, small puddles had formed and the wheels of the van splashed through them, sending a small water-spray and foam across the drive. “And your relaxation techniques.”

Kurt was still staring out the window, as he had been since they left the drugstore. “Good,” he muttered sarcastically. Krist smiled slightly at Kurt’s attitude. He had been like it all morning, once he’d learned that Krist was taking charge of the situation. It was probably the worse thing Kurt could have envisioned.

Once inside, Kurt flamboyantly threw himself at the sofa and sat down, knocking the pile of clothes and items that Dave had placed there, to the ground. Dave ignored it and picked them back up again, regardless.

“You need to take your medication three times a day, with food…” Krist stopped as Kurt sighed loudly again.

“Yeah, because my appetite is so fucking good.” Kurt complained.

“Or you could try milkshake,” Dave suddenly quipped.

“But you might feel sick to start with.” Krist continued, reading the small information pamphlet that had come with the medication. “There are a few side-effects listed here.”

Kurt rolled his eyes. “Please, do read them out. I am so very excited and eager to hear about it. I await your reading with such anticipation, I risk pissing my own pants with such excitement.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” Krist mentioned, still reading the pamphlet.

“And anti-depressants are not going to stop me having panic attacks. It’s just government mind-control. It’s how they make you conform.” Kurt spouted.

Krist sighed and looked at Kurt. “There are some things wrong with the government, Kurt, I agree, but they don’t make drugs to control people – well, not these drugs anyway. It’s purely undiplomatically correct for you to even think this. This medication can help you, Kurt. It has nothing to do with politics or the government or anything like what you have thought -”

Kurt tuned out - he wasn’t even listening anymore. Krist was ranting about the government again, going on about something to do with democratic substance or something. Kurt didn’t care.

Dave smiled, knowing exactly what Kurt was doing and he went to the fridge to get Kurt some strawberry milkshake. He handed it to him and then popped one of the pills from the blister pack.

“Might as well make a start with it,” he offered, softly.

Kurt willingly obeyed, for once, but whether it was to do as Dave said, or to simply shut Krist up, Dave was unsure.

***

 

The following morning, Dave woke early. He wasn’t sure why – there was no reason to. He knew Kurt was due his next dose of medication, so he got up and went to the bathroom, almost robotically.

It was a routine, one that needed to be implemented and enforced. It was something Kurt would have trouble keeping to. Not through any fault of his own – he was forgetful but he was lazy, but mostly, he would lose motivation because of his depression. Even something as simple as taking a pill with a glass of water could be too much for him sometimes.

So Dave had opted for the role of his unofficial carer, almost. His own train of thought only wanted the best for Kurt, regardless of how self-destructive his friend could be. It was hardly surprising with Kurt’s upbringing, but at least they were on a similar level, both their parents had divorced and both their dad’s were considered to be complete assholes.

Reaching around in the medicine cabinet, Dave tried to force himself to wake up faster; he used one hand to search for Kurt’s medication, while he used the other to wipe his eyes, in an attempt to rid himself of his blurred vision.

He found the box - it felt light. Thinking Kurt must have remembered on his own, Dave took the box anyway and went to Kurt’s room, regardless and knocked the door.

“You have to take you medication, Kurt,” he said, opening the door and talking softly. “You have to take your -”

Dave dropped the box, his senses were suddenly ignited – the room swirled around him as he saw Kurt lying on his back, surrounded by blister packets – all of them empty.

On closer inspection, to the right of Kurt’s shoulder, was a small packet, which looked to have had a white powdered substance, next to a rolled up twenty dollar bill and on the nightstand, there was a burnt spoon and some foil and a tar-like substance on the side.

Dave’s legs felt like rubber as he ingested the sight before him. It took his a few moments to move both himself and his brain before he acted on it and called for an ambulance. He returned back to Kurt’s bedside, not knowing if he should touch anything – he felt Kurt’s neck, first, trying to locate a pulse, when he couldn’t do that, he felt Kurt’s wrist and found one – a very faint, very small pulse.

On Kurt’s inner-elbows, the needle-marks were dry and old, as though it had happened perhaps an hour or two ago, and there was a dry trickle of blood that had started at Kurt’s left nostril and there were three cigarette burns on Kurt’s right forearm.

Dave’s heart was thundering in his chest. He suddenly felt very weak and sick. What the hell was going on? Kurt was really trying to destroy himself, trying to wreck himself and for what? A diagnosis of Panic Disorder - a disorder that could be treated and controlled?

Dave just couldn’t understand. Shaking, he left the room, to call Krist, he didn’t like leaving Kurt, he didn’t want to in case… he stopped himself before he allowed himself to continue those particular thoughts, his voice was shaky and dry.

“Krist… Krist… Kurt, uh, Kurt had an accident. He needs to go to hospital. I called an ambulance. They’re on their way. I’m sorry, Krist, I didn’t know… I’m sorry!” And then Dave sobbed.

Frightened, angry, anxious tears – he was only twenty-two, for fucksake, he’d never seen anything like this before – not to this effect or in this quantity. He cared for Kurt, so much. He cared for the band and he cared for Krist. He cared too much and mostly, it was his downfall, but this time it was different. Kurt could die.

Kurt was risking himself to death again, but this time, Dave could have prevented it. He was here, in the same place, in the same building as Kurt.

But Dave had no idea what Kurt had been doing. Dave had no idea how Kurt had snuck out and got his drugs, then snuck back in again, gone to the bathroom and got his medication and then slipped silently back into his room to embark on his plans of self-destruction. Dave had been here, but Dave hadn’t heard a thing.

He let the phone hang by the cord as he slid down the wall in a shaking, sobbing mess. He felt guilty and scared and angry – there were so many thoughts and emotions going round in his head, he didn’t know how to contemplate them all.

He didn’t know what to do, he felt simply helpless. He felt like a child and he didn’t know what to do. 

 

Krist would never have considered such an act, had the measures not been so drastic and called for. He went against all fibre of his being, all of his morals and principles and opened Kurt’s cupboard. On the top shelf, three jumpers – all too big and all with holes in, covered a box. Inside the box, many items, which were just so very Kurt, dotted the inside, but there, at the bottom, was Kurt’s most recent journal.

Krist had never read Kurt’s journals and had never really intended to, but all of the issues, all of the problems and now, suicide attempts, it seemed, called for him to find out. He had to know. He had to find out what was causing Kurt to act so erratically.

The journal itself had been scrawled on, with pictures, scribblings, words, and letters, drawings – that was just the front cover. Opening the journal carefully, Krist thumbed through to the most recent entries – Kurt’s latest ones.

He didn’t care for the other stuff; it wasn’t his purpose to pry unconditionally into Kurt’s writings. He felt bad for doing so, he felt guilty and almost disgusted with himself for what he was doing, but he had to see if there was anything going on that Kurt wasn’t telling them.

He sat down on Kurt’s bed – all items had been cleared and taken away by the paramedics when they had come to aid Kurt. Once again, Kurt had been carried away on a stretcher and one again; Kurt had been taken to hospital for treatment. The month wasn’t even up – one more time and surely, Kurt would be sectioned.

Krist scanned over the pages, trying not to digest too much information, but he stopped when on one side of the page, there was a drawing – an obscure, deranged picture of a figure of what looked to be like an old man, hunched over, gnarled and weak. Krist even smiled a little as the image was drawn in true Kurt fashion – the old man was holding his penis and ejaculating over a picture.

On closer inspection and, with the writing that went alongside the image, on the page opposite, Krist pieced everything together, as he read:

“My bones are crushed beneath the weight of your betrayal. You have lied and you have become nothing more to me than myself, which is nothing. Nothing is worthless and purulent. I am self-contained and I am selfish. Worthless, selfish, nothingness – all because of you. What is time to you? What is time? Discretion of what you can be bothered to provide, or a renaissance of what you can be bothered to access? Whatever. Your blood is in your ears. You can’t hear me. Pleasure yourself over the family photos and think about how talented you are. Think about what you have provided for the ones you love – you provide semen to make more family, to abandon them and cover yourself in pretence adoration for the ones you say you love. Your sticky semen is in my face, in my mouth and in my hair. You’re abusing me and them. But not yourself. Not you. Never you. You’re too good for that. You’re too good for them, yourself and me. You’re better because you’re best. You’re best because you’re better and I hate you. I want to cut out my heart and give it back to you because it’s little use to me. Its worth, in my body, is as much use as the name for “father” on your lips. So I am heartless and you and worthless and I selfish and I dumb and I am gay and you are ashamed and I am ashamed of your shame but I am not gay or ashamed of myself. And I don’t ejaculate over the values of a family - because I never had one.

Krist closed the journal quickly. He remembered Kurt making a call – making a call to ask about the Panic Disorder. To ask about any attacks he may have had in the past, if it was genetic, if he had been diagnosed before. No one had asked anything about it, Kurt must’ve lied and told them he was fine because things had not gone well when he made the call.

Dave had mentioned before, about a letter arriving for Kurt, but Kurt had refused to open it – it had sat there for a week before it disappeared. Dave never questioned it, but could tell from the handwriting, that it was something personal to Kurt. It wasn’t business or anything to do with the band. It wasn’t anything to do with anyone else but Kurt.

Krist went to Kurt’s nightstand and opened the drawer, nestled beneath an empty cigarette carton, a lighter, a chewed pen and some candy wrappers, the letter had been shoved to the back, still unopened. Krist took it out, looked at the handwriting and knew it was from Kurt’s father. He recognised the writing instantly. He opened the letter and read it carefully.

“Contacting me about your recent ‘episode’ is not something I want to hear about. You only ever contact me with bad news. Why can’t you tell me how things are going for once? Why does everything have to be so negative? Why are you always creating drama and attention? As always: My Son, The Entertainer. My Son: The Attention Seeker. I can’t stand to be around you. I didn’t want to deal with this, Kurt. You made it this way, not me. I gave you so many chances, but you didn’t want me to be happy. You went out of your way to make me unhappy. I did my best for you. I did what I could… you are so talented, so creative, you have such a sensitive heart, but you are too destructive for your own good. I am ashamed to know you, to know the acts you do. Having sex with men is wrong, Kurt. You shouldn’t live with another man. I used to think you and Krist were together. Or do you all just sleep together? And now Dave. You don’t live with men, Kurt. Men don’t live with men. I’m so ashamed. I so fucking ashamed. You’re a fag, Kurt… my own son, a fucking fag. How proud I must feel. You don’t have Panic Disorder, Kurt, you have Attention Seeking Disorder. I bet you love it when you’re on stage in front of all those people – all adoring you, all giving you attention. I bet you think about which ones you’ll be fucking that night, too. Men or woman, it’s disgusting. Men sleep with woman. Not men. You disgust me. I saw the news – I saw that interview where you collapsed. I read the papers and listened to the radio. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had aids or something. You’re going to die, Kurt. You’re going to get HIV and die. And then I will be happy. I will be happy when you’re gone, Kurt, because right now, I’m so ashamed, I wish you were dead. I wish you dead, Kurt. I wish you dead.”

The last line of the letter, had Kurt’s father’s initials, and Krist was seething by the end of it. He knew Kurt and his father had issues – he knew Kurt and both his parents had issues, even stepparents, but he never realised it was to such an extent – and of such homophobia. He felt disgusted with Kurt’s father. He balled up the letter and threw it to the floor.

He put Kurt’s journal back in its place and left the room as he had found it. Dave was lying on the sofa, which had become his bed since he had moved in with Kurt. “I need to go out… I might not be back until tomorrow. We’ll go and see Kurt tomorrow.” Krist said, pulling on his jacket.

Dave sat up, the blanket he had surrounded himself in dropped slightly. “Where are you going?” he asked, his voice tired and thin.

Krist didn’t answer. “Just… get some rest, okay? Oh, and since I’ll be gone, don’t forget to feed Kurt’s turtles tonight. The food is in the kitchen. He always feeds them in the evenings… I’m sure you know that, but he always made me promise, that if anything happened to him, I’d look after them. You don’t mind, do you?”

Dave shook his head, but hardly responded – he didn’t have the energy. Whatever Krist needed to do, didn’t involve him and at that moment, he didn’t really care. He couldn’t shift the image of Kurt lying on his bed, surrounded by all those things, out of his head.

Krist left shortly after and Dave was once again alone. The only noise was Kurt’s turtles moving around in the their tank. Dave watched them for a little while before slowly moving off the sofa, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, he trailed slowly around the tiny apartment. He planned on getting a beer from the kitchen but stopped at Kurt’s bedroom – the door was open, Kurt’s bed was unmade, the blind was half down and at an odd angle and it made Dave smile slightly.

He walked into Kurt’s room – clippings and magazine cuttings were dotted over the walls. A doll’s head was hanging from ceiling by the far wall and a half melted plastic action man figure was stuffed into the table-lamp light-shade. On the floor, there was a half eaten plate of macaroni cheese and a carton of milkshake. Beside that were a plectrum and a pack of guitar strings and an ashtray and some lyrics that Kurt had been working on, only the day before.

Dave felt his throat ball up and he frowned at himself as his eyes laced with tears. “Fucksake, Grohl, he isn’t dead,” he thought to himself. “Pull yourself together.” But he couldn’t. Dave couldn’t shift the sight of Kurt looking that that – being like that. So down and depressed and upset and everything else, to the point he wanted to kill himself. He couldn’t understand why. He didn’t know why Kurt felt the way he did and although it was obvious Krist knew something, no one had bothered to inform Dave.

Dave sat there, in the middle of the floor, his blanket around his shoulders, weeping. Sobbing hard and trying to get control of his breathing. Trying to get some control – of anything. He wanted to go and see Kurt, to tell him he was sorry for letting him down and not looking after him. He wanted to just give him a hug and let him know he was there, but he couldn’t and he was stuck here, in Kurt’s room, Kurt’s apartment, surrounded by all of Kurt’s things. Everything but Kurt.

***

 

Kurt’s vision was blurred. Somewhere in his mind, he was aware of where he was and what was going on. The rest of him was distorted. His stomach felt horrible, chained, clamped, and inflamed. He felt like he was going to vomit. His head felt dizzy, unsteady and clouded and his chest was tight. He coughed, spluttered and coughed some more. He realised then, as vomit splurged from his mouth, that he was having his stomach pumped.

After a while, he was left alone, the buzz of machines, people and other sounds, seemed to drift away and he felt like he could sleep. But when he closed his eyes, the room felt like it was spinning. His head still felt like it was clouded – blocked and covered, masked or deformed. He couldn’t really make sense of anything.

He laid there, trying to recall simple things – he recalled his name, his date of birth, where he lived, the name of his band, the names of his band-mates… he started to grow increasingly alarmed when he couldn’t remember Krist’s second name and he thought hard for almost two minutes before his recollection. It frightened him to realise his mind was so dulled to the point of not being able to remember simple things, but his mind was also tired and he really couldn’t keep himself awake, no matter how much mental stimulation he tried to provide, he couldn’t keep awake and fell into a dark, dreamless sleep.

***

 

The drive to Kurt’s dad’s house would take Krist most of the evening, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care how long it took him to get there because he wanted to sort a few issues out. Krist was rarely argumentative or angry. He wouldn’t ever start a fight and would only try to talk his way out of one. He was really a gentle giant, as some magazines claimed.

But not when Kurt was involved. He knew Kurt well enough to know what should and shouldn’t be said and now everything made sense. Of course, Dave was getting to know him, too – to understand all of Kurt’s moods, quirks and mannerisms.

Dave had been with them for just over a year and had adapted and been accepted almost right away. But Krist knew more about Kurt’s personal battles – some of which, Kurt wasn’t quite ready to discuss with Dave just yet.

Krist felt guilty about leaving Dave on his own, but he knew Dave would cope. Dave was stronger than he gave himself credit for. Krist had to do this, but he had to do it by himself.

Dave bundled some of Kurt’s clothes in a bag and left the apartment. He had to see him. He couldn’t stay there on his own, surrounded by Kurt’s things and Kurt couldn’t be alone in that place – he knew Kurt hated those places; he needed someone to be there. He caught a cab and made his way to the Chemical Dependency Centre.

All the items he had bought were checked – some disposable razors were removed and also a can of deodorant.

Dave rolled his eyes. “He’s not going to cut himself and get high -”

The woman did not look impressed. “He might not. Other people in here may be receiving treatment for such issues,” she reminded him.

Dave decided to keep quiet and followed her as she un-coded the door and let him through. They got to the room Kurt was staying in and she looked at Dave.

“You can only stay for thirty minutes. His treatment programme has been finalized and he will need to start it this evening,” she explained.

Dave nodded, suddenly looking very child-like. He pulled back his hair nervously as she opened the door and he went inside, following her but feeling small relief when he saw Kurt.

“Kurt, Dave is here. He’s bought you some things. He’s come to see you for a little while. It’s okay if you don’t feel like talking right now, but Dave just wanted to see you. He wanted to see how you were doing.”

Dave couldn’t help but notice how patronising her tone was. It was like she was talking to a five-year-old child. Dave also noticed that Kurt’s arms had new inflictions – ones that hadn’t been there before.

“When did he -”

She smiled. “Just before we bought him in. We took away his lighter. I suppose he had one in his pocket, as they removed the other one from the scene at the time.”

“So he just burned himself?”

She nodded, but looked to Kurt who remained emotionless, staring right up to the ceiling.

“Yes. He was very disorientated and confused, though. I think it was -”

She paused, as Kurt finally looked over at her, his stare icy and cold. He narrowed his eyes.

“I knew exactly what I was doing. Not everyone in here has lost their mind. I burned myself because I wanted to. I did it and I knew I was doing it and it had nothing to do with confusion.”

Trained to not retaliate or antagonize, she simply left, reminding Dave he only had half an hour and she closed the door firmly behind her.

“That sort of stuff is going to keep you in here,” Dave mentioned, softly, sitting down beside Kurt.

Kurt looked at him slightly, but then looked away, glancing at his own scolded arm. They were only slithers of burns – pink and fresh and new, not like the cigarette burns that were round and dark and faded.

“I did it for the response,” he admitted, eventually. “I did it because they were treating me like I was stupid, so I thought I’d act stupid for them.”

Dave sat back and smiled a little. “Still haven’t lost your sense of humour, then?” He asked.

Kurt turned to him now, his eyes seemed clouded, like he was deep in thought, but at the same time, he looked young and fragile and in some ways, child-like.

“I need to get out of here, Dave,” He said, softly. “I’m not going to get better in here.”

Dave sat upright – Krist had told him about Kurt’s previous times, when he needed similar help. He had bolted then, too.

“Kurt… you have… you’ve got an issue, Kurt. You’re burning yourself on purpose – regardless of if you did it for a reaction from them or not. And then there’s the drugs. This is the second time you’ve used cocaine, Kurt… and you’re injecting it, and the fucking heroin… speedballing, Kurt, you can’t leave.”

It was almost like Dave was saying these statements to himself, more so than anything. And as he was saying them, he avoided looking at Kurt – the accusing glare was too much and it made him very uncomfortable.

“Dave, please. Just get Krist. I don’t expect you… to… understand. Dave, I wasn’t supposed to come here, was I? I was just meant to be at the hospital, getting my stomach pumped or whatever. Dave, I seriously, cannot stay here. I really need to get out – I’ll get help, Dave, just not this way.”

Kurt’s voice seemed desperate, tainted with exhaustion, thin and tired. But the apparent need and pleading was prominent

“I can’t get Krist. He’s not here. He won’t be back until tomorrow. He had to go somewhere – he wouldn’t tell me where. He just left and said he would be back later. We were both supposed to see you tomorrow. I wasn’t meant to come here tonight, but I had to… to come and tell you… to, to come and see you and -” Dave stopped, his voice was getting high and shrill and he hated how it did that to him. He felt unconfident with himself at the best of times, but his voice, he decided was one of his biggest letdowns.

“I’m just so fucking sorry, Kurt.” He finished, not allowing himself to say anything else – not wanting to.

Kurt swallowed as he rested his head back on the pillow. He knew Dave wasn’t about to get him out. He hoped that Krist would. The door opened and the woman came back to escort Dave out.

“We’ll be back tomorrow, Kurt. I promise.” Dave said softly, as he got up. “And we’ll talk more about things tomorrow, okay?”

Kurt nodded and watched him leave, considering how fast he would have to move in order to get out. The windows were safe-locked, the doors were all coded. He was stuck here – at least until tomorrow, until Krist came.

***

 

By the early hours, Krist had arrived. He pulled up outside the small house – no lights were on but the front yard looked a mess. He remembered how messy things had been when Kurt had visited back here and thought it was disgusting that children had to be raised in such a state.

Carefully closing the car door, Krist walked, half in shadow, half in moon-light up to the door. He knew where they kept the keys – in stereotypical fashion, they were under the front door mat.

As usual, it had been raining, and dark, inky puddles lined the drive – the smell of rain was fresh and cool. He unlocked the door, aware that Kurt’s half-siblings would be in the house, it wasn’t his intention to scare them.

He laughed at himself slightly. He was a seven-foot giant of a man, letting himself into someone’s house, in the middle of the night and worried about scaring some kids. Part of him couldn’t believe what he was doing. The other part was intent.

He moved silently up the stairs – it had been a number of years since he had been here, but nothing had changed. He walked past what would have been Kurt’s old room and reached the end of the hall. Kurt’s father’s room was next – the door was slightly ajar, silently, Krist pushed it, stepping as quietly as he could, to the bed.

The curtains were still open, the sash-windows parted to allow air to ventilate the room, which provided eyesight to see which side Kurt’s father was sleeping on. As quietly as he could, Krist leaned over, holding his breath, feeling his heart race and his stomach fill with butterflies. He almost stopped himself, wanting to turn and run and leave and just pretend it never happened. But he quickly reminded himself of the reason he was there and banished all thoughts of anxiousness.

He placed his hand over Kurt’s father’s mouth, pulling him carefully – his father jolted awake.

“I need you to come with me, Don.” Krist said, very, very quietly. Don was moving around, kicking out and Krist was worried it would wake his wife. “Don’t move. Do as I say, Don… and you won’t get hurt.”

Krist couldn’t believe what he was saying. It was so clichéd and like he was in some kind of film. It was easy to move Don – he and Kurt had similar builds and Don was only slightly taller and had gained small weight from last time Krist had seen him.

Don kicked out again, but he was out of the bedroom now, Krist had a tight hold of him, he still had his hand clamped over his mouth and was pulling him down the stairs – it wasn’t violent, just forceful, but Don must’ve sensed this, because he stopped reacting so much, slowed his movements, as he realised who was holding him.

They went outside, to Krist’s van, and Don suddenly recognised Krist. He kicked around a final time, before Krist shoved him in and locked the door. He made his way to the driver’s side and got in, closing the door behind him.

“You better have a fucking good reason for this!” Don shouted, his breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling.

“I do.” Krist replied, simply.

Don was angry – his temper was wild at the best of times. Krist had only fuelled the fire that sat in him. It was similar to Kurt’s temper, but Don had the advantage of more weight – a slightly fuller build, however their features were still very similar.

“Just shut up. I don’t want to hear what you have to say,” Krist said, turning to him, suddenly producing a shotgun from the compartment. Don immediately stilled, was quiet, he didn’t say a word.

Krist sighed and lent back a little. “I read a pretty nasty letter… “ he started. “One you wrote to Kurt. It’s just, Kurt’s a good friend of mine and I’m worried about him. He’s really not well. See, we found him, last night… well, yesterday now, and he was in a bad way.” Krist said. Don was watching him carefully

“He took a cocktail of drugs… overdosed on his medication and burned himself. Now, I couldn’t understand why at first,” Krist continued, looking at Don for a few seconds.

“But then I saw the letter,” he deliberately decided not to mention that the letter hadn’t even been opened. He wanted Don to feel entirely responsible.

“He’s a good friend to me,” Krist said, playing the gun between his hands. “And now, he’s at the hospital, really sick and ill… and we have tour-dates coming up and an album to produce and not only that. We have to get Kurt into recovery.”

 

Don was silent. He watched the gun with similar expression to Kurt and Krist recalled how Kurt had hated the fact they looked so similar now he was older. They weren’t entirely the same, but there were times when Kurt would make an expression, sit in a certain way or give off a certain look, that completely reflected his genes.

Krist turned to Don now. “And this is all your fault. You fucked him up so bad. You fucked with his head and you fucked with him. You said you wished him dead, so he tried to kill himself… how would you truly feel if he did? What would you tell his brothers and sisters? What would you tell Wendy?”

Don opened his mouth, looking away for a moment. “Wendy and I don’t talk,” he said, softly. “We haven’t for a number of years.”

Krist nodded. “But you’d have to tell her – you’d have to tell Kurt’s own mother that he was dead… that you were the reason behind it… and what about his Grandparents? Or his Aunt and cousins? You might not love Kurt very much, but I know his stepsiblings adore him. As does his Aunt and his Grandparents.”

Krist lent back in the seat – his ease and relaxation unnerved Don and he watched as Krist palmed the gun again, this time holding it, his finger dancing closely on the trigger.

“I didn’t… I didn’t think about it. I just wrote it. I never… I never really meant it. At least, not about him dying. I don’t wish him dead – not really. I was angry. I am angry, but I don’t… I don’t want him to die.” Don admitted, his eyes never leaving the gun.

Krist nodded, but this time smiled a little, still holding the gun poised, he raised it, directed it at Don. “He doesn’t know about this gun,” he said, softly. “I suppose that’s a good thing after what he tried to do to himself last night. Can you imagine? Imagine going in his room and finding that? That wouldn’t be very nice, would it? Finding someone dead in their own room… their brains… splattered all over the nice, new sheets… their face no longer in tact… their - “

Don sat upright. “Alright! I know! Just stop! I don’t want to think about Kurt like that! Stop it! Please, just stop it! I’m sorry – I said I didn’t mean it! Please, just.. please don’t hurt me!”

Krist was shocked for a moment. He couldn’t believe what Don had just said. “Don’t hurt you?” He repeated. “You truly are a selfish bastard aren’t you? You’re not sorry at all! You’re just saying all this shit so you don’t get hurt… you don’t care about Kurt at all.”

The windows of the van had steamed up, and long trickles of water-trails ran down the windows. The low cast of orange light from the street-lamps reflected in the puddles and masked the windscreen in a fire-like glow.

“I do care about him! But I have a family to think about… a wife and kids -”

Krist glared at him. “But not Kurt?” He questioned.

Don looked away. He didn’t need to explain himself – his reaction was all Krist needed to see. He clicked the gun as it reloaded and he aimed it at Don, his finger resting gently on the trigger.

“I wouldn’t mind blood-splat on my window… it needs redecorating…” Krist said, almost manically.

Don was shaking, pleading, begging Krist. He looked like he was going to cry.

The gun was pressed right to Don’s temple now, the man looked like a child, and Krist was suddenly aware that he was enjoying himself a little too much and that thought alone scared him.

“Get out.” He said, suddenly.

Don looked at him, scared, surprised and uncertain. The air between them was dry and fused with the muggy warmth inside.

“W… what?” Don stammered, his heart racing.

“Get. Out.” Krist repeated. “If you don’t… “ Krist’s tone changed again – he sounded reflective. “Because if you don’t, I might end up shooting you.”

Don fumbled around with the lock – his palms sweaty and shaking. He finally grasped the lock and opened the catch, the door flew open and he half fell, half jumped from the van and stumbled back towards the house and then, Krist pulled the trigger.

The bullet smashed into Don’s car window, the glass shattered, Don fell the to ground, shocked, frightened and afraid. A dog barked and a light came on in the house next door.

An alarm suddenly sounded and the light in Don’s house came on. Krist reached over and slammed the van door shut, starting the ignition and revving the engine and then, he put his foot down, reversed and sped off, the puddles spraying water and foam on either side of the van as the wheels spun through the puddle-lined street.

Krist was shaking. He opened the window, allowing the cool air to rush around the van. He could smell the smoke from the barrel of the gun and it mixed with the fresh smell of the outside. He swallowed, trying to grasp his emotions – he couldn’t work out how he had done it, why he had done it or why he had enjoying holding the gun to Don’s head so fucking much.

He sped up some more until he reached the next town and then he pulled over. He had to calm down. He was shaking and close to tears – and, as he came to the realisation of what he had just done, he broke down into a sobbing, shaking mess. 

 

With the written consent from Krist that Kurt would receive help away from the facility, Kurt was released three days after being admitted. Bringing him home was emotional for Dave, who still felt guilty but pleased for his return at the same time. Krist was going to stay – he and Dave were going to keep a close eye on him and eventually discuss what he wanted in the way of treatment.

For now, they just wanted to get him home. It was a grey, cloudy afternoon and the wind was picking up. Reversing in the drive, Krist caught a glimpse of Kurt in his rear-view mirror. He looked so upset and tired.

“Dave, would you get Kurt’s things from the trunk? I’ll take him inside,” Krist said, softly, once he’d stopped.

Dave did as Krist asked, without question and Krist opened the door for Kurt, letting him out and then following him up to the apartment block. Krist hadn’t told either Dave or Kurt about what he had done. He was ashamed of himself, frightened by his lack of control.

That night, after leaving Don’s house, Krist had wrapped the gun in plastic carrier bags and driven all the way back to Hoquiam and thrown it in the Hoquiam River. Wishkah River was too close to where Don lived and Krist did not want to risk throwing it into Chehalis River or into Grays Harbour.

Of course, all the rivers led back to Greys Harbour and further, but Hoquiam River was renown for the mud and high tides, which gave good chance for the gun to never be recovered. He then left Greys Harbour County and drove the 44-mile stretch back to Olympia.

It had been a strange feeling driving through all the empty streets that he and Kurt used to frequent so often. But the memories for Kurt were too painful for him to ever really return for long.

Even passing through caused him much discomfort mentally, that they avoided returning as much as possible. Dave had asked on a few occasions, if they would ever go back but Krist had quickly responded with a rather resounding ‘no’ and Dave never mentioned it again.

***

 

Once inside, Krist settled Kurt in his room – the place was almost spotless. Kurt looked around, seeming subdued and distant.

He was pale and gaunt and had obviously not eaten – or refused to eat – for all the time he’d been in the Chemical Dependency Centre.

Dave soon followed; carrying Kurt’s bags and he placed them down on the floor, beside Kurt’s bed. “Do you want anything to eat or drink?” Dave asked, softly.

Kurt shook his head but did not respond further. He climbed into bed as Krist pulled back the sheets and comforter and once he was settled, Krist tucked him back in.

“I’m going to let you rest for a while, but then you really need to try and eat,” Krist mentioned, softly.

Kurt didn’t reply and was already closing his eyes – exhausted and mentally drained, not only from his drug-use, overdose and medical treatment, but also from the journey home.

Dave released the blinds, the room falling into a dim blanket of light in the late afternoon. He left shortly after, leaving Krist to finish tending to Kurt.

Moments after, Krist left, closing the door carefully behind him. He thinly smiled to Dave and joined him on the sofa. They remained silent for a while before Dave turned to him and sighed a little.

“How are we going to help him?” He asked, his voice tired and drained.

Krist didn’t answer for a few moments. He ran his hand through his already mussed hair and sighed loudly.

“To be perfectly honest, Dave, I have no idea. I really don’t know what we’re going to do… but - he needs to be here, with us. He won’t get better in those places. I’ve tried it all before. He refused everything and made it worse. He can get better like this, it is possible - we just need to figure it all out.”

Dave was silent again, lost somewhere in his own mind. Krist moved a little closer to him and smiled kindly.

He cared for Dave as much as he cared for Kurt – more so because of their age-gap, four years did not sound much, but when Dave, now the young twenty-two year old, had left all his friends and family behind in Virginia the year before and had flown all the way to Seattle to join them, Krist promised himself to look out for him.

It was a big ask for anyone to do, but Dave had lost confidence. Dave was unsure and perhaps too trusting and a little naïve. Krist was able to differentiate between all these issues and tried to provide as much support to Dave as he could.

Of course it went without saying that Kurt would look out for him too – Dave felt a sense of protection and security with his friends, they were brother-figures and he was the youngest, but it wasn’t the same as siblinghood.

He didn’t have to fight for his older brothers’ attentions or try desperately to join in and be accepted by them – that was already there, it was all a given. He was just having fun with them, doing what made him happy – doing what he’d wanted to do for as long as he could ever remember.

“You need to talk about this, Dave.” Krist said, gently. “You can’t just keep it all in.” Krist sat patiently, waiting for Dave’s response. The younger man nodded and glanced at him slightly.

“It fucked me up, Krist. Seeing Kurt like that really fucked me up. I know… you’ve seen it before, but I, I don’t ever want to see that shit again.” He admitted. “It scared the fuck out of me.”

Krist nodded and drew in a short sigh. He draped his arm around Dave’s shoulders and pursed his lips together. “I know how horrible it is. But I’m sorry, Dave. The chances of Kurt not doing this again are pretty slight. This… is just how Kurt can be. Its just Kurt, Dave.”

Dave nodded, reclusively. He already knew this. He just didn’t want to face the fact. Eventually, he would allow himself to come to terms with it and take note of Krist’s answer. He was right. It was just Kurt.

***

 

Unknowingly or seemingly, Krist and Dave had fallen asleep on the sofa. It was hardly surprising - with all that had been going on. Krist had planned to take it in turns with Dave, so that someone would always be awake for Kurt.

Dave jolted a little as he woke. He checked the time almost straight away, figuring they had only really been sleeping for forty minutes or so.

He blinked a few times and swallowed, his mouth was dry and his throat hurt. He carefully stood, so as not to wake Krist and went to the kitchen to get some water.

He gulped it down quickly, but stopped before he placed the glass down on the side. He heard a dull thud come from Kurt’s room. Concerned over his friend, he decided to wake Krist first, still unable to really face wanting to go into Kurt’s room alone.

“What’s the matter?” Krist mumbled, waking groggily, frowning slightly. Dave leaned over him; his eyes were speckled with worry and concern.

“There was a noise, coming from Kurt’s room,” he said, softly.

Krist nodded and stood, still half asleep and tired. He absentmindedly stood in the same spot for a few minutes – his black t-shirt looked rumpled and scruffy and his red jeans were twisted.

“Krist!” Dave said loudly, jolting him to move and wake himself up more. He stepped forwards a little and then turned and walked towards Kurt’s door.

They heard another thud and both men stopped in their tracks, pausing to look at each other, both their hearts pounding.

Krist carefully held the doorknob and turned it slowly. “Kurt?” He called softly, opening the door slightly.

Kurt’s blind was half hanging from the window, the curtains on either side billowed in the wind that had grown increasingly strong within the last few hours. Kurt’s window was wide open.

Opening the door wider, Krist saw paper and items scattered around the room, Kurt’s bed was unmade, his sheets and comforter all tangled together at the end of his bed. Krist knew for a fact, however, that Kurt hardly moved when he slept.

“Is it withdrawal?” Dave asked, backing up behind Krist, seeing the state the room was in.

“I would usually say so – but Kurt isn’t here…” Krist realised. Dave stepped forwards. “He got out the window?” He questioned, panic rushing through him, as they both stood in the middle of the room.

Krist went to the window – Kurt’s apartment was on the second floor and he couldn’t recall anyway for Kurt to get down. Even if he did want to score, he wouldn’t have gone through the window, no matter how desperate his measures were.

“Krist!” Dave suddenly shouted, Krist turned; Dave was on the floor, on his hands and knees. Krist joined him, and there was a small pool of blood, starting to dry into the carpet. More blood spots were dotted around the room; some were even on the sheets, along the side of the bed.

“What the hell?” Krist shouted. “He must’ve gone out the window! He’s not fucking here, Dave… what the fuck is this?”

Dave was already leaving the room, heading towards the front door. “Those blood spots were pretty fresh – he couldn’t have left that long ago,” he said, starting on the stairwell that led to the ground floor.

Krist followed hastily after and they went outside, around the side of the building, to where Kurt's bedroom window was, and began looking for any signs of Kurt.

Inside, however, Kurt was still in his room, his body was throbbing and he was shaking and crying. Inside his cupboard, he had been silenced – a hand was clasped firmly over his mouth, so much so it hurt his jaw.

He tried to muffle some kind of sound, but that only earned him more pain as the hand tightened around his mouth and chin.

He tried to move, but rough ropes on his wrists and ankles bound him tightly. Another arm was clasped tightly around his chest, holding him, stilling him. He was silenced, and he was still. “Once they leave, Kurt… once they leave, you’ll just have to do what Daddy says.”

Kurt was distraught, he couldn’t breathe properly, and hot tears fell down his cheeks and onto his father’s hand clamping his mouth so tightly. He was sobbing from under his father’s hand and he was shaking and he couldn’t see, and he felt hot and panicky and terrified. Even more so when his father momentarily removed his arm from around his chest, and pulled out a shotgun.

He held it to his son’s head. “I had a visitor, Kurt,” he whispered, still unsure if Krist and Dave had left or were just in the other room. “Said something about you wanting to blow your own brains out…” He stopped talking, they both heard it, but Kurt couldn’t get control of his breathing. He sobbed uncontrollably into Don’s hand. “Shut up!” He hissed. “Shut the fuck up, Kurt!”

He tried to respond, he tried to talk, to do anything, but he was petrified of the situation that had suddenly surrounded him. A door slammed and then there was silence. Kurt was still shaking and sobbing, his breathing was fast, rapid and shallow, his chest felt tight, his heart was pounding and he started seeing dots in front of his eyes.

“Not another phantom panic attack…” Don said, in annoyance. He sighed loudly and carefully opened the cupboard door. To ensure Kurt wouldn’t try to move or escape, Don turned and kicked him hard in the face.

Kurt cried out, gasping both for breath and in pain, as his father’s boot made contact with his nose. He fell back, feeling the warm trickle of blood drain from his nostril and into his mouth – his lip was bleeding, too and he could taste the rich iron on his tongue.

Don returned moments later, reaching in and grabbing Kurt by his hair. He dragged him out, and Kurt screamed in agony. Don continued dragging him out of his room and into the living room.

Kurt wreathed around and kicked out, and tried to break free of his father’s grasp, but he was weak from the days previously and he was in a state of shock and fear.

He suddenly had a surge of strength and kicked himself up, his whole lower body raised from the ground and he twisted himself around, almost freeing himself from Don’s grasp.

Don quickly retracted his son’s movements by kicking him sharply in the head and Kurt screamed again. Kurt twisted again, this time, he managed to lash out and he freed his feet from the rope that bound them, his wrists were still tied, but he kicked back at Don, who dropped the shotgun. His anger raged through him so quickly that Kurt had little time to react before his father was hulling him up and wrapping his hands around his neck.

“You’re a fucking bastard! I’m going to fucking kill you! I’m going to fucking kill you – you’re a fucking waste of space, a fucking fag – I’m ashamed that you’re my son!”

Kurt struggled for breath, but he stopped long enough to look at his father. “Ashamed of you too,” he slurred, coughing and spitting blood as he spoke.

Kurt felt himself being rammed against the wall, his whole body racked with pain as he was pounded again and again against the wall. Suddenly, the pounding stopped, he was moving, away from the wall, away from the corner – he was being dragged, pulled, but his feet were still in the air.

And then he landed, crashing down, his whole body colliding and crushing as he made contact with the glass tank his turtles lived in.

The whole tank shattered, the water swept over the broken glass and base-table, the turtles bobbed along as the water drained onto the floor and Kurt’s body smashed right through the middle of it.

The front door opened, Krist ran inside, lunging at Don, knocking him down straight away, he pinned him and he began pounding him with his fists, furiously. Pummelling his fists into Don’s face, he didn’t stop – he didn’t have any control of his rage.

Krist was vaguely aware of Dave shouting, but his ears were buzzing, his adrenalin was flowing through him and he didn’t care if he killed Don right there on the floor.

Dave stood over Kurt, numbed, shocked, terrified. Kurt was below him, shaking, fitting, his eyes were rolling back into his head, blood trailed from the corner of his mouth and he coughed and spluttered a few times – only blood came from his mouth.

Kurt’s entire body was convulsing severely, he was murmuring at the same time but his fit was increasing. His face suddenly flushed bright red and then drained completely to white just as quickly. His clothes were seeping with blood from the injuries he had sustained both from Don and the glass tank.

“Krist! Please! Krist, he’s going to die!” Dave screamed, his hands furiously running through his hair, his own body shaking in fear. “Krist!” He screamed again, tears forming and running down his cheeks.

He turned, he saw Krist – everything was happening in slow motion, Dave couldn’t comprehend it in time. Don moved, as Krist turned his back, and suddenly all the noise, all the uproar, and motion was cut short, as a single gunshot broke the air. 

 

 

Krist turned, his body was moving slowly and he turned to Don, who was still holding the gun. Their eyes locked for no more than a few seconds, but Krist felt his mouth open, almost as if he had no control and a surge of vomit escaped his lips.

Don’s face was twisted, agonized and on the left side of his face, just between his cheek-bone and ear-lobe, a wound, circular and a few inches in length had blasted through the side of his face.

Don had tried to shoot himself in the head – and it hadn’t worked. Blood seeped from the gaping wound, the fleshy hole revealed the white-yellow bone of his jaw. His mouth hung open, he was making noises, his entire body tensed and poised.

Dave suddenly found his feet, he moved quickly, leaving the apartment and going to the payphone in the hall. He dialled 911 and screamed for help. Krist could hear him shouting, screaming for an ambulance, screaming for anyone to come.

Krist felt more vomit boiling from his stomach and dared not to look at the wound any further. He turned to Kurt, who had stopped convulsing so severely and was fast falling into unconsciousness.

***

 

Dave and Krist sat hunched, silent, shocked and tensed in the waiting room of Providence St. Peter Hospital. Kurt and Don had been taken forward hours ago, for treatment.

They were both supposed to get treatment for shock, but so far, no one had called for them and Krist was doubtful that they would. For the most part, they were concerned about Kurt’s condition – it had been hours since they had taken him.

Dave looked to Krist, his face pale, drained and ashen. He looked like he was going to say something, but he refrained. He knew he didn’t have to.

Somewhere in the hospital, Don was receiving treatment. His second wife was at his bedside; family – sons, daughters, brothers, sisters and a wife, who was devoted to him, surrounded him.

In another part of the hospital, Kurt was also receiving treatment, but Kurt was all alone.

Finally, Krist and Dave were called through; they followed a nurse to a private room. It was quiet and the low light cast a relaxing glow.

In the bed, Kurt’s small frame was lightly covered with blankets.

His right arm was in a sling and his left wrist was bandaged. Around his chest, ribs and back, more bandages had been wrapped tightly around him, holding a brace-support in place. He face was grazed and bruised and there was slight swelling under his right eye.

“Has he regained consciousness?” Krist asked softly.

The nurse smiled sympathetically. “Briefly,” she said gently. “We need to monitor him for any signs of brain damage. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to say when he’ll wake up fully, but the doctors are confident that he’ll make a full recovery – from the scans, there was no visible sign on damage to his brain. There was a slight swelling at the back of his head -”

Dave looked at her, “In his brain? He had swelling in his brain?” His voice was high and panicked.

She nodded. “But it went down within half an hour. They’ve studied the CT scans and could find no further exposed damage but we’re just waiting on his verbal responses now.”

Dave swallowed and walked over to the bed, leaning over Kurt and sighing a little. He gently raised his hand and gently stroked Kurt’s face.

Krist finished discussing Kurt’s condition with the nurse and thanked her before she left.

He joined Dave on the other side of the bed – both men sitting on either side of Kurt, watching him, waiting for him to wake. He looked so small and fragile.

“He’s fractured three ribs,” Krist said, repeating the words of the nurse. “And his spine is bruised… nothing else is broken, it’s mostly cuts and bruises and bone-bruises.” He alliterated.

Dave nodded and kept his eyes to Kurt’s thin, pale face. “When will the police come?” He asked, softly.

Krist shrugged. “They’ve probably seen Don. Obviously, they can’t do anything until Kurt wakes up, but they’ll need to talk to us, too.”

Dave nodded. “Krist… I, I don’t want to go back there.” He said, softly. Krist looked at him, thinking Dave was on some sort higher mental level, assuming he was referring to not wanting to go back to the situation, to recite the events.

“Dave, you have to tell them. You have to you don’t really have a choice -” Dave shook his head, “No, Krist. I don’t want to go back to the apartment.” He informed him, quickly. “I don’t want to go back there.”

Krist nodded, understanding. “You and Kurt will come back to my place. We’ll find you both a new place. I don’t want either of you going back there, Dave. I want you close to me.”

Dave looked at him, “What about the money? We don’t make that much – not enough to pay for demos, recordings, room rental, travel, gas, food – rent, everything is expensive and we have so much to pay for, and now the hospital bills and Kurt’s drug treatment, Krist, we can’t just up and leave!”

Dave’s voice rose slightly and Krist shushed him. “Dave, don’t worry – we’ll figure it all out. For now, come back with me. We’ll think of something, okay?”

Kurt moved slightly, his eyes were moving behind his lids, his mouth twitched and his lips parted. Incoherent mumbling was all that followed and the episode was brief and unpromising.

Krist reasoned that this could continue for a while. Dave was adamant about not leaving Kurt’s bedside.

***

 

Three hours had passed and Kurt’s condition had not changed. The police had come to take statements from Krist and Dave, and Don’s whereabouts in the hospital had been confirmed – they were not allowed near each other.

Krist knew he was going to be faced with charges and he freely admitted to his violence. He still remained silent about his threats to Don, previously with the gun, and it seemed that Don had not yet mentioned it.

That was even if Don could talk at all – Krist didn’t want to think about the wound or his face or what he had done and attempted to do.

Don had major lacerations to the left side of his face, the vision in his left eye was impaired and at least a quarter of his face was gone, however, he had still survived, albeit very barely. The left side of his face would have to be restructured and grafted and he was in dire need of blood replacement.

Dave finished giving his statements and joined Krist back in Kurt’s room. “Any change?” He asked, softly, taking a seat to the right of the bed.

Krist shook his head. “No – he looks like he’s about to wake, but then he just falls back into it again.” His voice was soft but concerning.

Dave sighed lightly and sat back in his chair. He felt sick but numb. He was almost completely devoid of any emotion, save for how he felt about Kurt and Krist and even slightly, how he felt about Don.

“Are you getting charged?” Dave asked, softly.

Krist shrugged. “Probably. They need to compile all the evidence first, but I admitted to beating him up. I admitted to what I did.” He said, reflectively.

Kurt flinched, his left arm flexed and his hand extended and he murmured something before suddenly opening his eyes. It was like he was waking from a bad dream.

He settled, closed his eyes again, but only for a few seconds, before allowing himself to become fully awake.

“My, my, turtles!” He said suddenly, looking distressed and panicky. He flinched, as he jolted up, not completely aware of why his body hurt so much.

“Kurt, Kurt, it’s alright.” Krist assured. “You’re at the hospital, Kurt – your turtles are fine. They’re okay. You need to be careful Kurt. You need to rest.”

Kurt sat back, as Dave pulled the pillows up behind him to make him as comfy as he was able.

“A lot of stuff happened, Kurt – can you remember anything?” Dave asked, softly, pulling the blankets round him slightly.

“My dad,” he said, quietly. “He, he was… he tried to… I can’t, I think I -” he stopped, closing his eyes tightly, and pausing.

“Shh, Kurt – don’t think about it. Your mind is very delicate. It’s okay, just don’t stress over it. It’ll all make sense, Kurt, we’re here for you, Kurt.” Krist said, raising his hand and stroking his hair. “Just calm down.”

Kurt settled briefly, drawing in a sharp breath, which only added to his pain, the sharp numbing jolt of his ribs and back made him cough, and that in turn, hurt his body even more.

His nose began to run and tears formed in the corner of his eyes. “I don’t know why…” he sobbed. “What I did for him to do that to me,” Dave reached for his hand and held it carefully.

“I haven’t talked to him for… I called him, after my panic attack, but it didn’t go well, so I didn’t call anymore and since that, I haven’t talked to him. I got a letter… I got a letter but I never opened it.”

His voice was thin and childlike. “But why did he do that? How did he know about me… he told me, he said someone came to see him and told him I tried to kill myself.”

Kurt was starting to shake and Krist couldn’t take the guilt. He let out a small choke-like sob and shook his head. “Kurt, I’m so, so sorry…” he mumbled. “It’s my fault, Kurt. All of this… it’s because of me.”

Dave and Kurt were silent as Krist explained everything – why he had gone through Kurt’s things, why he had opened the letter and then what he had done afterwards.

Dave was shocked and it only numbed him more so. He and Kurt were in complete disbelief that Krist could even think about doing something like that, let alone do it.

Krist was uncertain if Kurt was angry about his actions, but he was more concerned over having to tell Kurt that his father had blown half in face off in an attempt to kill himself. They remained silent until Krist finished everything he had to say. Dave looked to Kurt, concerned, worried.

Kurt’s eyes were watery and dark-blue, making him look paler with the combination of eye colour and the dark rings under his eyes. “Where, where is my dad now?” He asked, uncertain of the answer, of if he even wanted to hear it.

“There, there was an incident, Kurt… the gun, he used – the one he held to you. He, he tried to turn it on himself, Kurt. He pulled the trigger, but, but it didn’t work. The angle was wrong. He… the bullet, it, it went through the other side of his face.”

Kurt’s bottom lip quivered as his eyes widened. His hands were shaking and then his face flushed and he felt his stomach lurch and he threw up all over his sheets.


End file.
